


Not What but When

by gul



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: F/M, Power Dynamics, cannibal jerks, murder princesses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-02
Updated: 2013-07-14
Packaged: 2017-12-13 19:11:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/827832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gul/pseuds/gul
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hannibal conditions Abigail to be JUST like him.</p><p>Fill for tumblr prompt: Abigail knows what she wants. She wants the maroon eyed wolf to consume her, take her. She's willing to do anything for his lust for her, even kill.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The transition had been immediate. Quick as the razor cut that marred her throat. Abigail, slashed and sputtering blood and gasps on her hard kitchen floor, had been neatly handed over from the hands of her father to those of Hannibal Lecter. That choice was out of her own hands.

This fact did not trouble her unduly. Abigail Hobbs, a girl pale and pretty and clever, had always been prey. Since she was clever, she knew that she could not change her nature. She also knew she had choice and control within a limited field. (The deer could choose to die in the woods or in the field; to choose her own hunter and to engineer her own death was to own her life.) 

She could not control what would inevitably happen to her; she could control how, and when.

She did not choose her monster father any more than she chose what she brought out in him. But the first time she spoke with Hannibal, she recognized in him the wolf. When he had sealed their bond by helping her hide the body, she knew she wanted him to be the one to claim her. When he took her in his arms, she knew how he wanted him to do it. She also realized that he had made a similar decision—she would be is.

He was perfect: a perfect monster, tall and lean and handsome, with dark maroon eyes like blood pooling on a wooden cabin floor, set in a haughty face. 

He was what she wanted to consume her.

But even as he bound them inextricably, he kept her at arms length. And prey must plot as monsters do.

Abigail was one of the few who could read Hannibal, but not enough to predict his responses. Some experimentation was in order.

At first, she decided to excite him through displays of vulnerability.

 

SETTING I: DINNER  
TACTIC I: Weeping/confession

Will and Freddie had left. Both had tried to hang around to corner Abigail; Lecter had neatly sidestepped them and told them that as his guest it was his responsibility to see Abigail home to the hospital. Now, she was wiping down glasses while the doctor kept himself occupied at the sink.

Abigail felt dizzy, almost electric. Which was good. Trembling and fear were better if they were real. She cried as she confessed to Hannibal (most) of her secret, about her father, about herself. He looked down at her, sadly, inscrutably, and moved to take her in his arms. She cried into his beautiful shirt as she luxuriated in his strong hold, in being cradled and stroked.

(The best lies are not the false ones: she really was reaching out to him, and he caught her.) 

It was the first time she had really felt him, and she was a little taken aback at his strength and firmness. She only started reacting in an unplanned manner at his smoky whisper in her ear, that Will and he would protect her. It was meant to reassure her; all it did was let her know that Hannibal considered Abigail to be HIS, and no one else's.

"You'll protect me?" she murmured into his chest, softly emphasizing the pronoun. He smelled--amazing, distracting, like spice and musk and wine. She couldn't help but nuzzle slightly, enjoying the warmth of his body through his thin fine shirt.

He exhaled; a sort of chuckle. "I'll protect you," he said, echoing her emphasis.

Abigail pulled back first, curving her hands around his back as she pressed her hips against his, ostensibly as an anchor so she could see his face better. She tried her usual tack, which was to part her lips slightly as she looked into his eyes, then dropped to linger on his lips, then returned to his eyes.

"What if I don't want you to protect me?" she asked.

The secret to parsing Hannibal's thoughts and emotions was to watch his mouth instead of his eyes. To watch how those overly full, overly delineated lips as they quirked and pulled, as he licked them, as he salivated and sneered. She saw a promising pull at her words, a glint of tooth--but it resolved into a calm, indulgent smile.

"I am afraid," he said, a dark dryness seeping into voice like blood into cotton, "that you will have to work to earn what you want."

He didn't ask her what she wanted, of course; he knew.

She could feel her own lips curve down in disappointment as he leaned forward to press a kiss on the corner of her mouth. It was not a chaste kiss--his lips didn't close until they were pressed against her skin. He could have been aiming for her cheek and missed. He could have made a mistake.

But Hannibal Lecter didn't make mistakes. And Abigail Hobbs could always navigate a challenge.

CONCLUSION I: Performative vulnerability through crying and confessions gets one kissed in the corner of the mouth.

\---

SETTING II: Abigail's (the guest) bedroom  
TACTIC II: Feigning nightmares

She wasn't lying, exactly. She did have nightmares. She just hadn't had one that particular night.

Abigail stood in the doorframe of Hannibal's home office door in her nightshirt, canting her stance to appear timid and vulnerable.

He didn't look up when she entered. She noticed he usually liked to make her make the first move. 

"I had a nightmare," she blurted. Abigail knew she always tended to play her hand too aggressively; she was working on it. But it wasn't like he didn't know what cards she held. Abigail was wearing a long nightshirt and panties. Enough to be modest. Also, enough to be provocative. She wrapped her arms around herself. It was chilly, downstairs.

He didn't look up. This evening his hair was slicked back, making him appear even more icy and forbidding. "I hardly see how that's possible, seeing as though you haven't slept tonight. Unless you are referring to hallucinations.

His round vowels were clipped and taut as ever, pushed forward by tongue and lip and tooth. Monster’s weapons, those.

"Fine, then," she admitted, crossing her arms in defense against him instead of the cold. "I'm afraid if I go to sleep I'll have nightmares. I've had them for the past three nights." She jutted her chin out at the last phrase; Abigail had a way of speaking to elicit a reaction that was confrontational yet simultaneously needy. She made it far too clear she was relying on the others' reaction. She knew it, but she always caught herself too late. Trying to soften her words and stance, she continued. "You said you'd help me with nightmares."

Lecter stopped writing and looked up at her then. His eyes were bright and piercing and bloody, his smile sent shivers--or would have, had she not steeled herself. "I did, didn't I?" He cocked his head briefly in acknowledgement. "Well. I suppose I must live up to my promise."

Hannibal always moved faster than Abigail calculated; his clipped loping steps had him by her side before she could prepare herself for his possessive hand at the small of her back as he forcefully guided her upstairs.

Disappointingly, he pulled back the covers of her bed and told her to get in. She sighed as she obeyed, facing the nightstand and pulling her knees up to get comfortable as he covered her to the waist with the comforter. 

Less disappointingly, he folded his coat over the bottom of the bed and joined her on top of the covers, folding his long body to hers and placing one hand on her waist.

"Won't you be cold?" she said. "You can get under the covers."

"I'm fine," he said. "You're quite warm enough." At that, though, he pushed up her nightdress to trace the curve between the swell of her hips and her ribcage, over and over. 

Abigail muffled a moan; she wished she could relax, but every muscle was tight with anticipation. She pressed back, fitting herself into him.

He responded with an inhalation and by pulling her closer. He nuzzled her hair and breathed in, even as he continued the calm steady pace of his strokes.

And that was all. 

This man was a monster, she knew, and yet no matter how she pressed into him and sighed, she could get nothing. Not even a pulling back or a directive to stop.

He stopped after some minutes, his hand resting on her waist. The stillness of his body and slow regularity of his breathing lulled her into thinking he was asleep.

She reached her hand down to between her legs--

And gasped as he drove his fingernails into her.

Just a reminder he was still awake.

Rather than deter her, it only made Abigail want to touch herself more. But Hannibal really did wait for her to fall asleep to leave.

When she wakes up, she wakes up startled and starving to dreams of him inside her. There is a profound ache between her legs.

CONCLUSION II: Feigning nightmares invites being held but nothing else. II(a): Being held by him was like being intoxicated. 

 ---

SETTING III: Hannibal Lecter's bedroom  
TACTIC III: Being direct

It didn't seem fair; all Red Riding Hood had to do to be consumed was to exist in the path of the wolf. And yet Abigail with all of her cleverness and charm was getting no response.

At eighteen, Abigail had more experience than most girls her age in dealing with men and monsters. She could have the boys she wanted; she could keep her father at bay with the girls he wanted. But she was still very young, and the beasts she dealt with did not require any sort of special finesse or cunning.

There were only so many methods in her repertoire and she had exhausted them all.

At first she tried to spend as many nights at Will and Dr. Bloom's as she did at Dr. Lecter's. (Although, to her crushing disappointment, it wasn't like she had to keep up appearances as nothing enormously untoward was happening at Lecter's.) Will would dote on her; Alana would take her shopping.

On one of her shopping trips, the older woman had helped her choose pajamas—not lingerie, but more sophisticated nightwear to “help her transition into adulthood” as Abigail had pitched it. Alana had smiled at Abigail's phrase, her tight reflective bright-eyed smile she sported when she was both genuinely pleased and when she was filing away certain information for later.

That night Abigail wore one of the selections—a pretty bright ice-blue that brought out her eyes and enhanced her dark hair and pale skin, and hugged the curves of her breasts and hips. She very deliberately crossed through the hallway--she had to make herself take every step--to enter Hannibal's beautiful room, and to sit on his beautiful large bed. And she waited.

She was sure he knew exactly where she was the moment she entered. Still, he made her wait a very fidgety hour.

"Hello Abigail," Hannibal said as he walked into his room, with only a bored polite look thrown her way.

Abigail had worryingly not planned for him being casually unsurprised. She said nothing.

He didn’t seem perturbed; only went about his usual business removing and putting away his tie and jacket. She watched as he moved about the room, fluid and precise. “I hope you are aware,” he continued, closing the closet door, “that it is very rude to enter someone’s bedroom without their permission.”

“I wanted to talk to you,” she said.

“I was downstairs, if this was the case. And we spoke at dinner.” He stood at the side of the bed she was occupying—looming. He reached a hand out.

Abigail swung her legs over the side, making sure they were parted enough to be suggestive but not wanton. His eyes flicked down; his lips twitched. She caught it. “Are you angry with me?" she asked.

“Of course not. Sexual advances such as these are common coping mechanisms for victims such as yourself. Up you get.”

The girl had not counted on being so disappointed. “Don’t you like me at all?” she sighed, taking his hand, allowing herself to be pulled up.

“I like you very much, as you know.” He scooted her along by her waist, much closer to her hipbone and much tighter than say, Will, would press.

She scoffed, leaning against the wall at his doorway, folding her arms. “I’m not a victim, you know. I can handle myself. I can handle everything that has happened. I mean I wouldn’t even have to, if it weren’t for you and WIll fucking up my life and—“

She had looked to the side when she cursed, so when Hannibal, moving faster and fiercer than she imagined anyone ever could, pinned her against the wall, his hands on either side and leaning into her, she actually cried out.

“Language, Miss Hobbs,” he smiled, and it was a genuine smile, and she wasn’t sure she liked it. “Now. Listen to me. Are you listening?”

She nodded, stricken.

“Tell me you are.”

She swallowed. She wished she wasn't so turned on. “I’m listening.”

“If you are not a victim, than stop acting like one. And I will stop treating you as one. The crudity of the tools and methods you have been displaying to exert control only further reenforce my assessment of you.”

“I just…I want you to…”

“Of course you do. But you want it all over so fast. You are so anxious about the WHEN that you do not consider the WHAT.” He didn’t go on. He didn’t move. He waited.

His face so close, his smell. She wanted to kiss him. But instead she panicked, and pushed him away roughly. He responded by slamming her back against the wall, pinning her by her shoulder.

He kissed her roughly, briefly, on the lips, flicking his tongue over her mouth and in before pulling back just as quickly." She gasped. 

“That’s my girl,” he said, brushing his other hand, warm and rough, up her thigh, pushing the blue silk fabric up and away and leaving little tingling fire-trails in the wake of his touch.

She gasped as he brushed up her panties before pulling away.

Lecter continued. “Show me you are no one’s victim but mine.”

The girl nodded, and he pulled away to kiss her chastely on the forehead. “Good night, Abigail.”

She stepped unsteadily out. It took her some time catching her breath on her bed before she could even contemplate laying down; much longer before sleep came.

But in that time she realized something.

No, she had not gotten what she wanted. But she had gotten something perhaps more valuable: a new tool.

CONCLUSION III: Violence and obedience was rewarded with sex.

And that's when the game changed.


	2. Tactics IV - V

SETTING I: Dinner  
TACTIC IV: Intimating knowledge and willing participation in deviant behavior (i.e. sly cannibal references)

Abigail had known Hannibal's culinary predilections for some time; that dinner with Freddie and WIll was what prompted her "confession" in the first place and had started this whole mess of a power play. Only, initially, she had thought to escape the monster. Now all she wanted was to be consumed herself.

After that night, she had seen the Rolodex that was kept unusually close to the recipe box. It is a few weeks of delicious but decidedly animal-based meals before Abigail tastes that same strange smoothness to the meat at dinner again. 

Hannibal had taken her to an artist's retrospective that evening. Hannibal needed no contextualization for the exhibit but had arranged for a docent for Abigail's sake. Unfortunately, their young docent had been terrifically rude and dismissive to them both. Hannibal was apologizing for the young woman's behavior.

"Oh," Abigail said, as she looked down at her plate. "Thanks, but I don't care. I think I got what I needed to out of the evening." She carefully cut and picked up a piece of meat on her fork. It was a distinctive enough gesture that he stopped speaking to watch her. Meeting his eyes, she wrapped her lips around the fork as she put it in her mouth. "Ugh," she said, "so good."

"Language," he said, his own lips pulling at the corners.

"Sorry. I love your cooking, I mean," she amended. "“You know, and don’t take this the wrong way, but sometimes it reminds me of my, uh. My father’s cooking.” His lessons were taking, and she waited at least five seconds before she looked up at him.

“As your family table was a source of comfort and pleasure to you, I will take that as the compliment it was no doubt meant as,” he said, but there was a curl to his smile that showed his strangely sharp eyeteeth, and he kept his dark eyes on her face.

She gave him a small smile that did not show any of her teeth, and picked her wine glass up by the bowl just so she could see his eyes flicker to her offending hand.

“I’m not doing this right, am I,” she said.

“No. You must grasp it by the stem, like this.” He demonstrated. “The taste of wine is served neither by the warmth of your hands nor the smudges of your fingertips.”

“Sorry, show me again?”

He wiped his mouth with his napkin and leaned back in his chair. “Perhaps you should come over here, and I can demonstrate.”

She obeyed, perhaps more quickly than she would have liked. When she came round to him he patted his lap.

She sat herself down gingerly on his knee, but he quickly pulled her in so her ass was firmly on his crotch and her back curved into his chest. She heard his soft breathing from above her right ear as he anchored her softly with his left hand. Anywhere they touched, she burned, and she ground into him almost instinctively as he placed his right hand over hers on the stem of her wine glass.

“See,” he said, gently manipulating her hand even as she curled into him. “Just like this.”

She tried to calm her quickened breathing and slight trembling; it was meaningless to do so.

Hand over hers, he guided the glass to her lips, watching her in private delight.

She swallowed. "I see," she said. "Thank you."

"My pleasure."

Abigail put the glass down and leaned back against him, pulling his arms around her. He nestled his head in the crook of her neck, against her scar.

“I’m sorry today didn’t go so well,” she said, after a moment.

“On the contrary. I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“That little docent was really awful, wasn’t she.”

“More to you, than to me, I’m afraid. I would not feel it my place to complain; she was so young, like you. Perhaps you could do something about it though.” He disentangled his right hand to start rubbing her gently right below where her breast met her ribcage. The touch was gentle, but unlike the comforting caresses she recieved from Will or Alana, it was definitely meant for him as much as her. Perhaps more so for him, in fact--there was a pressure and hunger to his touch. 

She tried to play her intake of breath as surprise or thoughtfulness. 

She wondered why she tried.

 

CONCLUSION IV: Knowing cannibalism earned her a place on his lap.

\---

SETTING II: Abigail's bedroom  
TACTIC V: Acquiring/delivering a business card of a very rude person

Abigail was an old hand at befriending strange girls, and the docent is not exception. The only things that jar is the docent’s appearance—she is blonde and dark-eyed, to Abigails’ more contrasting coloration--and the fact that Abigail is working alone, without her father. Still, she told herself, she could do this. At the gallery, she wanders around a bit before asking for Lana. Lana appears, all contrasting shades and texture, badly composed. Abigail smiles; she tells her that she and the man she was with, her father, had such a wonderful time under Lana's guidance. Her father owns his own gallery in London and was she interested in an internship, or?

Lana was interested. She handed Abigail her card, which Abigail was delighted to see was an obnoxious mash of glaring fonts and colors. Lecter would love it. Abigail thanked her, and left.

By then Abigail had settled into a routine. On Saturdays she stayed at Will's, on Sundays she stayed with Alana, but Friday she stayed at Hannibal's since most of the cultural events he wished her to partake of were then. It was funny how they all chose to bond with her, she would think--Alana who would help her plan her future and buy her things, Will who would dote on her and take her fishing. Hannibal, who was giving her the opportunity to be just like him.

That night it had been a symphony. After a brief drink, and before she went upstairs to sleep, Abigail fished the little card out of her purse. “Oh!” she said, “I almost forgot.”

She handed it to him, his eyes widened quizzically.

“I got the business card of that docent,” she said. “I know you like to keep cards rather than like an address book. You know. For your dinner parties. Dinner party guests,” she pretended to amend.

“How thoughtful,’ he said, turning his head with a narrowed eye that was almost a wink. “And resourceful.”

She smiled brightly. “I hope you don’t invite her, though, what a nightmare.”

“I seem to recall promising,” he said, putting the card into his pocket, “that I’d protect you from nightmares.”

“See that you do. I am personally feeling pretty freaking fragile after the encounter. Well. Goodnight.” She didn't look back at him as she walked up the stairs to the guest bedroom, to change from her dress to her favorite blue nightshirt.

She still jumped when he knocked on the door. "Come in," she said.

He walked calmly in, repeating his actions from the previous time he was in her room. This time, in addition to folding his coat so nicely on the foot of the bed, he also slipped off his tie and shoes. "May I?" he asked, standing next to the other side of the bed.

Abigail flipped back the covers. He joined her, covering them both as he eased her body back to nestle against his. Still, it was the same as before--the same stroking of her waist. The same electric lull of being held.

The same digging into her skin with his nails when she tried to touch herself when she thought he slept.

"No," he said, but before she could protest, he continued: "Allow me."

Well, Abigail thought dizzily, as he maneuvered his hand under her nightdress. That wasn't the same.

The young woman held her breath as his large hand snaked down to between her legs, under her panties, rubbing over her before slipping a single finger over her clit and between her folds. She bucked, she couldn’t help it. He shushed her. “Would you like me to stop?” he asked, as he pressed a single finger inside. He drew out her wetness to bring it back over her clit, which he started manipulating in earnest. 

Her whole body went cold, her legs numb, as she instinctively pressed her thighs briefly together around his hand.

“Of course not—fuuuck,” she said.

“Language,” he said, pinching her clit, and she squealed.

The pain only increased her sensitivity. She gasped and writhed (as quietly as possible, for some reason) under his ministrations—slow at first, fingers dipping inside her briefly, only to then caress the length of her cunt, before focusing his long fingers solely on her clit—rubbing circles, rubbing lengthwise, varying the type and pressure of touch so she couldn’t predict it, every move drawing more and more focus and need and pressure where their touch connected. 

For a length of time, the only sounds was her pantings and any keens she couldn’t suppress, and the slick sound of his fingers working underneath her now-undoubtedly-ruined silk panties.

She tried to move, to turn to him, to see his face, to press herself against him, to kiss his lips, take his cock in her hand, her mouth anything—

But when Abigial tried to move or twist, he would stop.

She whined in protest; Hannibal pushed her gently back to her former position and continued. Whenever she tried to move her own hands down, he would pinch.

“Be still now,” he said, after a particularly vicious pinch. She only hummed in response. She had two choices—she could let him take charge, or she could have nothing.

She chose the first.

He used his hand that wasn’t busy between her legs to pull her back gently by her hair, to press his face against her as he inhaled through his nose. “It was so very considerate of you to bring me that dreadful girl’s card,” he finally said, and the only hint that he was doing anything more intimate than holding a dinner conversation was evident in the way he swallowed his rhotics and hissed his sibilants—he was slipping back into the sounds of his native tongue.

“You seemed like you were interested in her,” Abigail choked out. “It was the least I could do, I—ahh—“

At her twisting to meet his touch, he eased off again, only to continue as she held still.

“It shows a promising and enterprising nature in you,” he whispered, his voice almost dropping to a growl. “However, there is still much for you to learn.”

“Like what—f—“ she swallowed the curse, swallowed, opened her eyes to let some sensory information in to dilute her laser focus on what was occurring between her legs. “Why won’t you—mmmph.”

“I can’t hear you," he hissed, and lied.

“Never mind—ah—oh god.” She was coming closer—the swells and pulses making her reach back to grasp the fine fabric of his suit.

He pulled her head further back as he increased speed and intensity, nuzzling his head into hers. “The answer to both your retracted questions is, I think the same.”

“Mmm.”

“As I've told you, I want to give you your power back. Certain inevitabilities are out of your control, as you know.”

“Like—like you.” 

“Like me. But other circumstances are not. So take what you want. Take,” he snarled, and he paused, and pressed and pulled hard, at just the right spot, at just the right angle, to send her over the edge, “control,” he said, as she came, as she cried out and twitched under his hand, grasping at the blankets and at him. He kept his hand firmly on her cunt as she shivered out her climax.

When she had caught her breath, he let go of her hair and angled himself up on his elbow. He regarded her—sweaty, gasping, unkempt—with cool affection, pulling his hand slowly from her panties up her body, over her breast and collarbone to hold her face as he looked down, as she struggled to maintain composure.

“As I said, it was very thoughtful of you to collect the young lady’s card,” he said, leaning to hover over her lips. “However, I believe she is more your concern than mine, so I will return this to your keeping.” He reached into his pocket, then reached out and over her to put the card on her nightstand (upright, straight edge parallel to the edge of the nightstand). 

“Oh,” she said, unable to mask her disappointment.

“This is an opportunity, Abigail,” he said, tightening his lips into a smile. “For you to control, for once, both what and when.”

“Ah,” she said.

“Do you understand?”

“I understand.”

He leaned over her to kiss—no, nip, oh god—at her scar, reviving the ache and twinge between her legs. As soon as she reached her hand up to pull him closer, he retreated, up and off the bed.

“Good night, Abigail” he said.

“Good night, Dr. Lecter,” she said

He actually grinned at that. She could see his teeth. 

She shivered, as he closed the door, thoughtfully licking his fingers.

Fuck, she thought, but did not say.

CONCLUSION V: Fuck. He was really going to make her do it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is degenerating quickly.


	3. Tactic VI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Abigail thinks she decides both what and when.

SETTING III: Hannibal Lecter’s bedroom  
TACTIC VI: Murder, or, Navigating the line between victim and monster

Abigail Hobbs had always been a girl to whom new skills had come easily. 

(She had not had an easy life; rather, she had been able to learn and adapt with preternatural quickness. She had very quickly learned, for example, that being or appearing as bait was its own form of power.)

Killing humans was sometimes even easier than killing animals. The secret was the secret to anything: don’t be weird. Don’t attract attention. Kill strangers. Be a pleasant and pretty young woman.

The young docent was invited out as easily and casually as she was disposed of. Abigail had never killed a young woman herself, and as Lana chokes and splutters around the knife Abigail tried to really mentally step back and gauge how she felt. She registered none of the grimy sexual urgency of her father; she supposed she was more like Dr. Lecter. 

She killed out of desire and curiosity rather than need. After all—she wanted to see what he will do.

There’s always the muss and sweat and battery-acid adrenaline of a kill, and she let herself into Lecter’s house to shower. (He wouldn't be back until late. He had already called and apologized for missing dinner but tells her he hopes she will still feel welcome to stay the night.) She ran the water too hot, far too hot; she wanted to feel burned away and clean and ready. After, she examined her slim pale body in the mirror. She feels unprepared, but then, placid. After all, she thought, hugging his outrageously luxurious towels around her body—one can only control so much.

Abigail brushed her hair, long and lush and dark, and after again choosing her favorite blue nightshirt, rubbed the slippery fabric smooth over her body. She examined the knife on her bedstand, the shine dulled with mottled blood, and Lana’s business card stained with the same.

She hadn’t expected to be so frightened.

She thought of leaving; she thought of just going to sleep in her own bed. But then she thought of his heavy lovely mouth on her neck and lips, and his long blunted expert fingers on her hips and between her legs. Of what he has told her of control, and how she has realized you can be conditioned even when you know it’s happening and how.

The business card was left in the kitchen; the knife she would keep with her. She put herself on top of his bed, doing the breathing exercises he has taught her to keep herself calm.

When she heard him enter downstairs, heard his quick purposeful movements, her stomach lurched the same as when she drove the knife into the girl. There is a very long moment of silence; his steps clip up the stairs and then Hannibal Lecter opens the door.

He stood lean and sleek, always so dark and sleek, in the doorway. He had already removed his overcoat and jacket and vest. Severe and handsome as always, Abigail was unexpectedly overwhelmed by her dread of him—his broad shoulders and skull-face with its almost obscenely overgenerous mouth. It must be the way he was looking at her, looking her over: his maroon eyes with little sparking pinwheels of red, the way he juts his lower jaw. 

(She had wanted him to consume her; she had forgotten how close to death she teetered every day.)

Abigail had to keep herself from screaming at the sight of him, and at the way she echoed the hunger she saw in him, burning strange and breathless. She longed to press herself against him, to wrap her legs around him and possess him. Her desire terrified her; she had never realized it was a form of deathwish.

Her hand closed around the handle of the knife. She was an expert at handling knives. It had come so easily to her.

“Good evening, Abigail,” Lecter said, taking a few steps into the room. So calm. “Saw your gift. What a clever, thoughtful girl you are. I believe we have previously discussed methods of reciprocation.” At that, he turned to undo his tie. 

His smile showed sharp and crooked teeth. A wolf’s smile.

It was too much; she had made a misstep.

Knife in hand, she scrambled out of the bed, the smooth fabric of her shirt and bed working against her speed. She tried to run out of the room, to dodge past him and out.

(She never figured out where she was trying to go—maybe to the guest room to close the door and sleep in her own bed. Maybe out the door and into the night air to run and run like a doe at a black gunshot crack until she had run so far she had become someone else. Someone safe.)

Lecter caught her by the arm effortlessly. “Too late, Abigail,” he said, amused, neatly using her momentum to slam her up against the same wall he had kissed her against before. He pinned her by the ribcage even as he brushed a hand up her thigh, pushing up her nightshirt to between her legs, his fingers slick over the smooth fabric and so expert that she couldn’t help moaning, close-lipped. He leaned to kiss her neck and jaw; he pressed his lips to hers.

He leaned back. “Open your mouth,” he said. His voice was low and husky, his eyes narrowed.

She had never seen him like this. She pressed the knife tentatively against his chest. He laughed, and allowed himself to be pushed back, and she almost cried out in disappointment as his hands left her body and how he looked at her like she was dull and disappointing.

“Forgive me,” he said. “Of course, you are free to go.”

“No,” she said, as he placed a hand over hers with the knife.

“I can’t hear you,” he said.

She paused, and scowled at him. “No,” she said again and louder.

He hooked his fingers through her slim small ones as he carefully took the knife from her. He leaned in; loomed.

“Open your mouth,” he said again, gently.

She obeyed. He leaned in to claim her, to kiss her, to pull her against him. She was glad for the extra support around her waist; she had not realized that your knees could actually go weak from sensory input. She looped her arms around his neck.

And then she squealed, as she felt the knife at her throat.

Lecter watched her in curious delight as he moved the knife down lightly over her collarbone to between her breasts. Not enough to cut, but enough to be cold. To sting. Looking in her eyes all the while so as not to miss a single drop of fear and desire for him to taste, he took the top of her nightdress in one hand.

He cut: a smooth movement of ripped and rippling blue silk, pushed off her pale shoulders to the floor. Her panties followed. She squeezed her legs together at the way the knife tickled.

It took every ounce of Abigail’s profound strength strength to not cover herself as he drank her in, his lips pursing in familiar calculation.

She must have passed muster; he cupped her face and smiled. It was a smile she knew, until a red and speculative hunger took over, his jaw working as he ran his hands over her shoulders, her sides, her ribs, her ass. Then, back up over her small full breasts only to angle up her head so he could kiss her again.

Abigail felt the stabs of her own hunger; she unbuttoned his shirt, pushing it off of him. Her hands dug into his lean muscled body as she grew almost dizzy from the smell and warmth and taste of him. 

He pulled back; he removed his shoes and pants and boxers while still deftly holding the knife before resting his hands on her hips. She pressed into him: her breasts against his ribs, his hard cock against the soft curve of her stomach.

(He looked feral, looking down at her. She didn’t quite come at the sight but her whole body shuddered.)

“You retook your power,” he said, stroking her cheek.

“Sort of. The girl—“

“She is irrelevant except as she reflects you making a choice.” Despite his face, his clipped voice, his clauses running into one another: they could have been in his office. “You made a calculation; you decided a course of action and pursued it. You decided both what and when.”

“Yes,” she said, smiling slow.

“So tell me,” and the growl was creeping into his voice, “whose are you, Abigail.”

“Whose victim or whose monster?”

“Whose are you?”

She swallowed. “Yours,” she whispered.

He lifted her off the ground, parting her legs, as she cried out in surprise. She had to grab his shoulders for balance as he shifted her to hold her up with the arm with the knife. With his free hand—and oh, she thought, crazily, to watch his muscles pull and churn under his skin rather than his clothing was really something—he positioned himself against her cunt.

She watched his face carefully. His heavy lips were curled open. His eyes were hooded; glittering.

“Again.” The guttural quality to his voice made her press and squirm against him with a whimper.

“Yours, I’m yours,” she gasped.

He let her weight sink her down on his cock as he drove in and penetrated her. Not outsized, he was still large for Abigail’s small frame. She cried out with a strangled sound, sinking her face into the crook of his neck. Lecter held her up by her thighs and ass and the wall; she held herself up by wrapping tight around him, with one hand laced and pulling at his hair

After a few deep but slow thrusts, he began a rhythm that grew increasingly brutal as she gasped, and all Abigail could do was hold on. Her keens and gasps seemed like they came from someone else entirely. His skin was hot, and they soon worked up a sweat that made him difficult to cling to.

It hurt, exquisitely, tremendously at times—but in such a novel and wonderful way, she thought. It felt like being pinioned.

(And unbidden, she thought fleetingly of her friend Marissa—but Marissa was only a victim, she decided, cruel. Abigail, on the other hand, had asked for this. She chose her monster. She wanted this, didn’t she want this, didn’t she.)

(While Marissa’s—Will Graham’s—tragedy may have been not being able to choose what monster ate them up out of this world, Abigal Hobbs’s tragedy was that she never considered she didn't have to be claimed and consumed at all.)

Lecter didn't come. Instead, still holding her, he pulled out and places her on his bed, spreading her on her back. She complied. 

He still had the knife, which he held gently between her breasts. She could take it. If she wanted.

He pulled away to get lube from the nightstand. Pouring it generously on his hand, he leaned over her—knife against her breast, fingers at her cunt. He slipped just one slick finger at first between her folds; she is sensitive from fucking and bucks until he presses her down. He moved up to her swollen clit and rubbed, gently at first, and flicked and pinched and rubbed more as she writhed, and it is only then he began to dance the knife lightly across her skin. Never enough to cut; enough to hurt, to leave marks, on her soft pale skin, on her arms and breasts and belly. (Never, she notes, her throat.)

She couldn't gauge when the pleasure and what and where the pain, and the tension and anticipation heightened every single nerve she had, and his face was so calculating and voracious under his mussed hair, that when she came it was harder than she ever imagined possible—through her whole body, lancing electric from her cunt through her legs and lungs and throat, shorting her out so effectively she feels as if she’s lost time.

Hannibal gave her a short time to regroup, rubbing the inside of her thigh affectionately, before he started again, before making her come again, and again, and more until she could barely discern the boundaries of her own body, until she was crying and begging for him to stop, no more, stop, please.

He stopped, and she almost sobbed in relief as her body twitched, out of her control. Hannibal pressed the knife into her hand, and kissed her softly.

“What would you have me do?” he asked, avidly watching her face as she caught her breath, with a tender hunger that made her stomach drop when she thought of it later.

“I want,” she started, and swallowed. It was ridiculous to be shy, lying naked and open before him, but she is still frightened of him. Of herself. She jutted her chin as she always did when she was being more direct than she felt; adopted the same airy, haughty tone. “I want to see you come,” she said. She pressed the blade of the knife into his neck, above his artery.

Hannibal was strange—the soft pride and delight that sometimes touched his eyes never seemed to mute the the hunger, but only to sharpen it. He pushed back her hair, matted with sweat, and smiled. “Of course.”

He moved above her, his hair in his face, his lips heavy and red. Angling her slightly, he pushed in and forward, balancing his weight above her. 

She held the knife in place as he fucks her, deep hard strokes, running her hand from the hair on his chest to the tendons in his neck to the scruff on his sharp face. All the while, he kissed her, nipped her skin, as she responded and rose to his touch.

“Faster,” she said, imperiously, and he complied. “Harder,” she said, with a gasp as he obeyed.

“Abigail,” he finally whispered in her ear.

“Wait,” she said, savoring the feeling of him inside her and how his rhythm was becoming less controlled, and more urgent and ragged.

“Abigail,” he growled again, more pressingly.

Abigail smiled into his neck, pressing in the knife. She leaned back so she could see his severe face, the usual brilliant coldness all melted into glazed and sloppy lust. “Okay,” she said, “now.”

At her command, he finished inside her, with a short hoarse cry into her scar.

He held her for a moment as they both caught their breath. When he pulled out to get supplies to clean them, she seized his face to kiss him. Her undone monster, his face sated and relaxed, with the cut on the side of his neck dribbling red.

She thought how few must have seen him like this, and how intimacy and knowledge was a kind of power. 

And that she had invited this herself.

(She had to tell herself that.)

(She had to.)

She licked at the blood; he kissed her.

Later, when she rested against him, depleted and sore and euphoric, he gently stroked her hair, all curled from damp. She perched her head on his chest.

“An I safe?” she heard herself ask, high and uncertain. “Am I safe now?”

He laughed softly, a quiet rumble she could feel. “Abigail, I cannot think of a safer place on earth for you tonight,” he said.

She made herself smile, and curled in closer to him like it meant something. And, as per his promise, there was not enough left inside her head even to dream, much less have nightmares.

CONCLUSION VI: Sometimes monsters liked eating other monsters best.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is what happens when i have an unexpected eight-hour layover; i write weird porn.


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